


A Change in Dynamics

by wsherlocksholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parent!lock, Teacher!John, john is his son's teacher, sherlock has a son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wsherlocksholmes/pseuds/wsherlocksholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has a method. When the desires of his transportation become too overwhelming, Mrs Hudson watches Quentin and he heads to the club to find a one night stand. Ideally, he'd pick up a bloke about to be deployed, satisfying both his military kink and his desire to never see said bloke again. </p><p>One man throws off this pattern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes has a method. When the desires of his transportation become too overwhelming, Mrs Hudson watches Quentin and he heads to the club to find a one night stand. Ideally, he'd pick up a bloke about to be deployed, satisfying both his military kink and his desire to never see said bloke again.

 

With enough alcohol consumed to dull his senses, Sherlock prowled the dancefloor for a somewhat suitable candidate. If he couldn't find one, he would knock back a few more drinks until he settled.

 

Eventually his predatory gaze fell upon a shorter blond man leaning against the bar with a haircut and posture that screamed military. As he moved closer, Sherlock noticed faded marker stains on the man's hands. Father? Possibly. Sherlock certainly wasn't one to judge; as long as a child wouldn't stop them from heading back to the stranger's flat, Sherlock was fine with that.

 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked casually, leaning languorously against the bar himself.

 

The blond man beside him startled slightly. "Sorry, what was that?"

 

Sherlock shrugged, inwardly smirking as the man's eyes trailed along the recently exposed collarbone. "Just wondering where you serve. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

 

"I... Afghanistan," the man replied, looking up at Sherlock's narrowed eyes with his own dark blue irises. "Served, though," he corrected. "How did you know?"

 

"Your posture, haircut, tan lines that don't pass your wrists... It all says military," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.

 

"That's amazing," the blond confessed, sending sudden heat to Sherlock's cheeks (and his groin).

 

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock whispered, lowering the octave of his voice.

 

"Truly," the blond replied. "I'm John, by the way, in case you didn't observe that yet." John let out a hearty laugh that pulled a smile at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

 

"Mm." Sherlock gently took John's drink out of his hands and placed it on the counter, then moved his own hands to John's hips. "Would you care to see what other tricks I know?" Sherlock growled in John's ear, then pulled back to watch the reaction.

 

John's pupils expanded as his tongue darted out to lick pink lips. His Adam's apple bobbed before he choked out a "sure" and followed Sherlock onto the dancefloor.

 

If there was one skill that rivaled his violin playing, it was his dancing. With the steady bass rumbling in his ears, Sherlock began a rhythm in his hips that left John absolutely mesmerized. It wasn't long before Sherlock was grinding back upon John while John trailed his hands over the tight muscles barely concealed beneath the silk plum shirt. When the heat became too much for John to bear, he grabbed Sherlock's hips to pivot him around and press him against the wall.

 

John glanced quickly up at Sherlock's eyes before hungrily pressing his lips against the taller man's and raking his fingers through the tumultuous black curls. Sherlock groaned and graciously accepted the tongue that had been tracing his bottom lip, urging his mouth open. John tasted like beer and chips and tea, and somehow it was wonderful.

 

Sherlock shifted his hips, pleased when he found John too was sporting an erection. Sherlock broke his lips away, and as John began sucking a mark onto the pale exposed skin of Sherlock's neck, Sherlock made his suggestion. He slid a hand between John's legs before asking, "Would you like me to take care of this?"

 

"Oh god, yes," John moaned. "My place isn't too far."

 

That was all Sherlock needed. He dragged John through the crowds before flagging down a taxi and nearly shoving John inside. It was a tense few minutes before Sherlock was practically throwing money at the cabbie as John hurriedly unlocked his flat.

 

Sherlock had a quick glance around to confirm there was no kid before he was once again pressed between John and the wall. They continued where they had left off in the club before Sherlock slipped a condom from his pocket and pressed it into John's palm. "I'm clean," he whispered, and John nodded before leading Sherlock up to his bedroom.

 

In the bedroom John hesitated. "I... ah... How do you...?" He motioned at the bed, staring at the floor.

 

Sherlock laughed lightly. "I'd prefer you on top, if that's alright."

 

John let out breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Okay. Yeah, that's... good."

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Are you going to just stand there? Hurry up. I want you naked."

 

John hit Sherlock's hands away. "I want to do that," he demanded, and slowly, teasingly rid Sherlock of his shirt, then trousers.

 

Sherlock, always impatient, let out a whine. "You have too many clothes on."

 

"God, are you always this hurried?" John asked.

 

Sherlock dropped his voice. "John. I want you to fuck me. Right now."

 

With that, John's clothes were off in a matter of seconds and he was on top of Sherlock, pressing him into the mattress.  "Spread your legs a bit," John commanded before inching down to lick and nip at Sherlock's pale inner thighs. He worked his way up (slowly, despite Sherlock's begging) before licking a long stripe from the root of Sherlock's cock to the head.

 

Sherlock dug his fingers into John's scalp as he held back a whimper while John took his head into his mouth. It was almost cruelly teasing, the way he swiped his tongue around the head and against Sherlock's slit before slowly, so slowly taking Sherlock further into his mouth.

 

Sherlock fisted handfuls of John's sheets as he began panting. "You... tease... so much... I need," he breathed out. "John, I want you inside me."

 

John nodded before taking his mouth off Sherlock with a loud, wet pop and unwrapping the condom. Sherlock nearly groaned watching John roll the condom down a cock much thicker and longer than Sherlock had predicted. He desperately needed to know what it would be like inside him.

 

John grabbed the bottle of lube from beside his bed before sitting back on his haunches. "How do you want..."

 

"I don't care," Sherlock nearly snapped, desperate for John's cock. "Just... hurry."

 

John squirted lube into his hands before commanding, "Lie back. I want to see you."

 

Sherlock obeyed and gasped as he felt John teasing against his hole before slipping a finger inside. He began carefully preparing Sherlock, inserting another finger and then another as Sherlock writhed and begged for more.

 

When John pulled back, Sherlock nearly sobbed, but the sound caught in his throat as John sank inside him. Slowly, of course. Tortuously slowly, although Sherlock certainly needed the time to adjust to John's size. When John finally bottomed inside him, they were face to face. John grinned and kissed Sherlock gently. "You're so beautiful," he whispered before pulling out nearly all the way.

 

"John," Sherlock breathed.

 

"Tell me if I hurt you, okay? Or if you need me to go slower."

 

"Shut up and fuck me already," Sherlock grinned, wrapping his legs around John's torso.

 

John started off slow again, but with Sherlock's begging and prodding, he gradually picked up pace until Sherlock was nearly screaming with pleasure as John's balls rapidly smacked against him while John's cock repeatedly hit his prostate. "Oh god, so beautiful, so... so tight, so perfect..." John would continually praise, while Sherlock seemed able to only articulate "John" and "harder."

 

Suddenly John's hand was wrapped around Sherlock's prick, and with a few tugs, Sherlock was cumming between them, hot semen spraying against John's stomach, sending him over the edge right after.

 

The two men lay in a tangled heap, catching their breath, before John planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead and went to dispose the condom. By the time John got back from the bathroom, Sherlock was already gone, and he cursed himself for forgetting to get so much as a name.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock was finished showering, he found Quentin in his bed asleep. He didn't mind. He kissed the soft dark hair pressed against Quentin's forehead before gently shifting him over on the mattress and climbing in beside his son.

 

* * *

 

"Daddy's coming to school today!" Quentin told Mrs Hudson the next morning as he gobbled down toast.

 

"I know, dear, it was nearly all you talked about last night," she giggled, ruffling the boy's auburn hair.

 

"He's gonna meet my teacher, and he's gonna see my macaroni art, and he's gonna hear how smart I am!"

 

Sherlock grinned over his tea. He was honestly dreading the inevitably boring parent-teacher conference, but it still made him happy to see his son so excited.

 

“Dad, let’s go!” Quentin demanded, tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve. “I don’t wanna be late!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If we leave now, you’ll be an hour early!”

 

Mrs. Hudson clucked. “Appreciate it now. By the time he’s sixteen, you’ll be dragging him to school.”

 

Sherlock grimaced and pulled the toddler into his lap. “Promise me you’ll only be a brooding teenager with Uncle Mycroft.”

 

Quentin giggled and wrapped a hand in Sherlock’s loose curls.

 

“The other kids are learning their letters but I said letters are boring so my teacher is helping me learn the periodic table, just like you teach me!” Quentin rambled, and Sherlock beamed with pride.

 

“Why don’t we practice the periodic table then while we wait to go to school? Let’s see how far you are now.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock sat in a miniature red chair uncomfortably close to the ground while Quentin sat next to him, scribbling on a paper with crayons. The classroom aide, Miss Hooper, said that the teacher would be right back. “There was an incident with the glue and his jumper at craft time,” she said with a smile.

 

“Carson McLean threw his cup of glue and it got all over Mr. Watson’s jumper,” Quentin informed his father.

 

When Mr. Watson entered the room (sans jumper, in a T shirt) Sherlock was taken by surprise, to say the least. The man had stopped by the door to say something to Miss Hooper on her way out and had yet to look over, but there was no mistaking him for anyone other than the man Sherlock could recall pounding into him last night. He did his best to neutralize his gaze before the teacher strode over to sit before him in the big desk.

 

“Hey there, Quentin, what are you drawing?” Mr Watson asked as he approached, still not focused on Sherlock.

 

Quentin held up the paper. “It’s a picture of me with Daddy!”

 

“Wow! Great drawings, Quentin. And this must be your dad?” At that moment John sat down in his desk facing Sherlock and Quentin, and Sherlock watched as the recognition hit him like a freight train.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said coolly, trying to remain stoic.

 

“Mr Holmes,” John tried on his tongue, furrowing his brows slightly. “I apologize for the lack of professional attire, but…” he glanced down at the old blue T shirt. “There was an incident with the glue and one angry six-year-old.”

 

Sherlock couldn't help thinking that he had certainly seen Mr Watson in significantly less professional attire, but that was not something to bring up in front of one’s son. “Yes, well…” He waved his hand. “So what am I here for?”

 

“Well…” John’s face blushed slightly. “It’s just a parent-teacher conference. I’m supposed to hold one for every student, to talk about how they’re doing in the class. And Quentin is absolutely great. Far above his years.” He smiled at the thin boy coloring frantically with his crayons.

 

Sherlock beamed at his son, a natural pride reaction. He knew Quentin was much smarter than children his age, and many children older than him. “Is that all?” He made a motion as if ready to leave.

 

“No. Well, yes, I guess, but…”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

“Usually parents stay longer. Have questions. Want to know more.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Quentin has memorized the periodic table up to Barium and has mastered basic calculus. I don’t need you to tell me my son is brilliant.”

 

Quentin popped his auburn head up. “Mr Watson, you gotta show him my macaroni art! I told Daddy you’d show him my macaroni art!”

 

Sherlock bit his lip and settled into the red plastic chair (as much as one could settle into a chair made for half his height). This was about Quentin. He tried to find one-time sexual partners that he would never have to see again. He hadn't thought to ask if any were his son’s teacher.

 

“Sure, Quentin, do you wanna get that from your cubby?”

 

Quentin nodded and scurried off to grab his art, leaving Sherlock and John sitting across from each other in uncomfortable silence.

 

“I… uh… didn't get a name, so I hadn't thought…” John began, not looking at Sherlock.

 

“My mistake,” Sherlock said, trying to reign in his patience and forget his experience last night. “I should have thought to check first before fucking a man to make sure he’s not my son’s teacher.”

 

John opened his mouth to say something, but before he could find the words Quentin reappeared holding construction paper with macaroni pieces glued to it in the shape of a bee.

 

“Look, Daddy, I made it for you ‘cuz bees are your favorite!”

 

Sherlock grinned and wrapped Quentin into his arms, planting a kiss on the round cheeks still chubby from baby fat. “It’s wonderful.” So many things bored Sherlock Holmes, but he never ceased to find wonder in his child.

 

“Marcy Lewis made her macaroni art into a picture of her family, and she has a mom and a daddy and a sister. So Kevin Reed made a picture of his mom and his dad and his brothers. How come I don’t have a mom?”

 

Panic gripped Sherlock by the throat. It was a question he had been dreading for some time, and certainly now was one of the worst times for it to be sprung upon him.

 

“Quentin, remember when we talked about families?” Mr Watson began after seeing the fear in Sherlock’s eyes. “Everyone has a different family. Some kids have just one mom, and some kids have just one dad, like you. Other kids have a mom and a dad or two moms or two dads. Some kids have a dad and a step-dad. Everyone’s family is different, and that’s what makes them so great.”

 

Quentin’s eyes grew wide. “Some kids have two dads?” He tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve. “I want two dads.”

 

Sherlock plastered on a smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Am I not good enough for you?” he joked.

 

Quentin shook his head. “If I get two daddies do I get extra presents?”

 

Sherlock laughed and pulled his son into his lap. “You get enough presents, you spoiled brat,” he teased, kissing Quentin’s forehead and tickling his sides.

 

“It looks like you have one really great dad,” Mr Watson commented. “Your dad is just so good that you don’t need a second.”

 

Quentin laughed and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock mouthed a thank you over his son’s head. John nodded slightly. “I think that’s all I have to say, if you’d like to go.”

 

Sherlock took his cue to exit. He hoisted Quentin into his arms and quickly weaved through the miniature desks to the door.

 

“Bye Mr Watson!” Quentin called back. He shifted in Sherlock’s arms. “I like Mr Watson. D’you think he’d wanna be my second dad?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “It doesn’t work that way,” he responded, and nuzzled his face into the auburn hair, breathing in the scent of crayons and hand soap for comfort.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs into a familiar figure who is able to answer some questions he doesn't have the answers to

Sherlock hated the idea of changing his usual club location just to avoid his son’s teacher, but he thought it the best option. Besides, he told himself, a new club could lead to a new variety of people. Wearing tight black leather pants and a deep vee neck green shirt that brought out his eyes, Sherlock entered the club determined to take home someone that was in no way connected to his everyday life. He knocked back several shots before heading onto the dancefloor.

A shorter blond caught his eye, and although Sherlock could not see his face, he could see the muscles bulging beneath the tight blue shirt and a round ass clad in dark denim. Sherlock danced his way across the floor before coming up behind the man, placing one hand on his hipbone as he began to grind against him. The man beneath Sherlock’s hands arched back in response and the two began a sensuous movement in rhythm to the thudding bass.

By the time the song changed and Sherlock was starting to strain against his zipper, he turned the man around and pressed a heated, open-mouthed kiss against his neck. Hands shot into his hair before he was roughly pushed back.

“Mr Hol- Sherlock?!” a familiar voice asked incredulously, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see himself looking upon none other than Mr. Watson, the very man he had intended to avoid.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it was you,” Mr Watson began to blubber, his face quickly turning bright red. As though his current embarrassment wasn’t enough, the oblivious surrounders continued to dance, bumping into the short man and pushing him straight into Sherlock. John reached out in an attempt to steady himself and found his hand brushing against Sherlock’s erection, making him painfully aware of his own.

Sherlock found himself in a rare moment of speechlessness. “Mr Watson,” he began in the coolest voice he could manage. “I did not expect to find you here.”

Mr Watson ran a hand through his greying blond hair and licked his lips. “I could say the same. I assure you, I do try my best to not sleep with my students’ parents.”

Sherlock felt a red blush sweep up his neck. “I had no idea you were Quentin’s teacher during our encounter.”

Watson laughed, and Sherlock hated how good it sounded in his ears. “Well this has thoroughly killed the mood tonight. Care to grab a coffee with me to fight off any hangover?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Only a few moments ago he had been ready to follow a muscular blond home. Now the mood was truly gone. “Might as well,” he heard himself agree, although why? He knew he wouldn’t have a hangover in the morning; he was very aware of his drinking limits and water intake whenever he went out.

* * *

 

They sat in a small, rather deserted cafe nursing their coffees. “You know,” John began, “most parents shoot me an email or something when they want to meet. We really need to work out a more conventional method.”

Sherlock smirked. “I’m hardly the conventional type,” he admitted, enjoying the light dancing in John’s dark blue eyes.

John let out a deep laugh. “I’m not at all surprised. Most five year olds talk about their favorite books or toys or telly, not gravitational theory and plant biology.”

“Most five year olds sound dreadfully boring,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Mmm. Quentin certainly keeps me entertained.” John took a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I don’t mean to pry, but Quentin’s a smart kid, and he’s been asking me a lot of questions that I think he should be asking you instead. I remember last time you hinted that his mother isn’t in the picture, but have you told him anything about her? When we talked about family units, he was rather curious as to why so many of his classmates resembled their parents, but he insists he hardly looks like you. I think he found it upsetting.”

“Well, it’s only logical he doesn’t resemble me. I’m not his biological father,” Sherlock replied before sipping on his coffee.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware,” John started, but Sherlock dismissed it with a wave.

“Don’t be. It’s not something I’ve brought up to my son. Biologically, he may not be mine, but legally, I’ve been his father since he was just a few days old.”

“Ah. I see.” John furrowed his brow. “Well no, I don’t, but it’s not really my place to question. Why am I even bringing this up? I’ve had too much to drink.”

“It’s all fine,” Sherlock responded. “His mother had been part of my network of homeless correspondents. In exchange for information on a particularly interesting case I was working on, I was taking her to the clinic for prenatal care and checkups. She truly cared for her unborn child. Unfortunately, her close proximity to the perpetrator made her a victim before the case was solved, and I found her bleeding in a dark alley. The stress of her attack had induced labor, and I helped deliver Quentin. She had no family, no one to care for him, and she knew she would not make it. She had me promise to take care of him, and so I did.”

“Ah.” John looked uncomfortably into his empty mug as he took in the story. “I can see now why the topic hasn’t been approached.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in a tight line. “He’s been asking me for quite some time about why he looks so different from me, and why other kids have mothers and he does not,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve never known what to tell him.”

John reached across the table and took one of Sherlock’s pale, slightly trembling hands into his own rough, tanned hand. “It’ll be okay, Sherlock. Why don’t you tell him all the good things you knew about her? Tell him about how she loved him, how she cared for him before he was even born.”

“And what do I tell him about what happened to her?”

John shrugged. “Well, she might not be here on Earth, but she’s still with him, always, looking over him.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t believe in a Heaven or Hell.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “How about this? She’s still with him, still part of him. She’s in his very DNA. He’ll like that. Very scientific.”

Sherlock gave a short laugh. “God, how do you do this? You seem to know all the answers I can’t come up with. And I do mean that with the utmost respect. You may be the only person whose competence I have acknowledged within the last decade.”

John smiled. “It’s my job, isn’t it? Kids are my job.”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. He was suddenly aware of his hand within John’s. With a slight cough and a pull away to begin, he said, “Yes, well, I’d better be getting home to Quentin. Knowing him, he’s still probably awake waiting for the next act of King Lear.”

“You are not seriously reading Shakespeare to your five year old, are you?” John asked incredulously, only to have his question answered by a quirk of Sherlock’s eyebrows.   
“Oh, god, talk about unsuitable reading material. Knowing the genius that kid is, he’s probably picked up more innuendos than I would.”

“Is it that bad for his age? I’m not very good at these things.”

John shook his head in mock disbelief. “How about you try something a little more child-oriented after this, like Harry Potter?”

“Mmm. I’ll consider it. Thank you, John Watson.” He awkwardly stumbled out of his chair and left the cafe, his mind spinning as it went over every detail of his latest encounter with the unusual schoolteacher.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think of Mr Watson?”

“Mr Watson is the best!” Quentin exclaimed. “His favorite dinosaur is a stegosaurus, just like mine, and he talks about cell organelles with me.”

Sherlock ruffled Quentin’s hair, noting the difference between his son’s straight auburn locks and his own dark curls. “Is he smart?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Mr Watson is the smartest person ever besides you and Uncle Myc,” Quentin insisted. “I like him. Can he always be my teacher?”

“No; when you go into the next year, you’ll have a new teacher.”

“But I don’t want a new teacher!” Quentin pouted. “I just want Mr Watson. He’s my best friend.”

Sherlock turned at that. “What about the other kids in your class?”

Quentin frowned. “They don’t like to play with me. They get mad because I know my numbers and letters and they say I’m too smart to play with them. But it’s okay, because Mr Watson talks science with me when the other kids won’t talk to me.”

  
Sherlock felt his heart break.

**Author's Note:**

> So, sorry, this is probably my first real smut scene and it could be very awful so any tips are appreciated!


End file.
